No Such Thing
by KnightFury
Summary: Holmes is forced to leave an injured Watson alone on a deserted footpath in order to get help. Is all that the doctor experiences thereafter a mere reaction to shock and fear in his vulnerable state, or could there be a paranormal explanation? This story was written in response to a prompt from Watson's Woes, the LiveJournal community.


I had become concerned for my dear friend, Sherlock Holmes, in mid-October. The weather was cold and wild, with dark, cloud-filled skies and driving rain and had been thus for weeks on end; like all great artists, my companion is easily impressed by his surroundings and was therefore depressed by the wretched weather. So it was that I arranged to take the fellow off to the coast, with the assurance that we would be contacted by Mrs. Hudson at once should a case present itself in our absence. I happened to know that Holmes had an acquaintance - a fellow whom he had assisted before we took up lodgings together - that had been trying to persuade my companion to pay him a visit.

After much 'bullying' on my part Holmes grudgingly agreed that we would spend a few days on the south coast and take some air and rest. However, even he had to admit, upon arrival, that the stormy weather was less oppressive on the coast and promptly took himself away to watch the waves hurling themselves upon the rocks while I unpacked our bags and conversed with our host, Sir Charles Foss. The almost immediate change in my old friend I welcomed with relief, for he had spent every stormy day in London stretched upon the sofa with no inclination to move himself at all.

The first two days spent on the coast were uneventful and I enjoyed the peace and fresh air. Holmes and I often took walks along the clifftops and would then double back to the footpath that lead from our host's hall to the nearby town, sometimes visiting one of the quiet inns for lunch before deciding to go back to the hall, which was set at the heart of a small wood about a mile from the seaside town.

On the third day, the weather turned particularly foul when Holmes and I reached the town following one of our walks. My companion insisted that we wait the worst of the storm out at the inn and we seated ourselves close to the fire to dry out in the meantime with a pint of ale and, if memory serves me, dish of rabbit stew apiece.

"Listen to that dreadful weather," my companion remarked to me as the rain battered at the windowpanes while the wind shrieked in the chimney. "I am glad that we are not abroad in that Watson - we would be half-drowned before we reached Sir Charles' Hall."

I agreed quietly and must have inadvertently rubbed at the protesting old wound in my shoulder, for Holmes immediately was watching me with a subtle expression of concern that I have come to recognise.

"We shall remain here until we are sufficiently warmed and... and I feel ready to venture out again," said he. "My apologies, but I am feeling a little weary. I hope that you are in no hurry?"

I agreed readily enough, though I suspected that his decision had rather more to do with the expression that I had seen him cast in my direction than any fatigue on his part.

When we finally ventured out again, the hour was approaching four and a quarter, but the clouds had been swept away by the boisterous wind and there was plenty of daylight by which to see. However, I was in some discomfort from the soaking that we had received earlier in the day and the temperature was very much lower than the bright sunlight would have caused me to expect; as a result, my steps were slower than I wished them to be. The light was beginning to fade when we reached the edge of the wood, the chill wind howling in the trees as Holmes and I made our weary way onward, along the deserted country footpath.

I shivered, for the temperature was sinking steadily lower, while a strange sense of foreboding came over me, causing my skin to crawl and the hair at the back of my neck to stand on end. It almost felt as if we were being watched, though I could hear no sound but our own footfalls.

Having seen my shiver, my companion cast me an appraising glance.

"Holmes, I am quite all right - merely chilly, as I am sure you are yourself."

He gave an almost imperceptible sniff and nod of his head. As he had for much of the day, he appeared to prefer to remain silent.

"For how much longer are we likely to be traversing this footpath?" I enquired with a quiet sniffle of my own.

My friend shrugged his shoulders. "Not much longer, I hope. Hum! Never-the-less, we should have brought a lantern."

"I did not expect us both to be out so late," said I somewhat apologetically.

He squeezed my arm. "Neither did I - this is hardly your fault old fellow. Had I anticipated our being out for so much of the day, I would have arranged for us to have been met by a carriage or something. Oh! Have a care Watson! Are you all right?"

I had failed to see a hole in the path that was obscured by the dappled, long shadows of the fading sunlight and so it came as quite a shock when I found it by painfully misplacing my foot within it. With a cry of alarm and pain I pitched forward, hearing a twig or something crack as I did so, and would have found myself to be sprawled upon the path had my companion's quick hands not caught me up. I gasped and worried at my lip to keep myself from giving another cry as the fellow assisted me into a sitting position at the side of the rapidly-darkening path.

"Are you badly hurt?" Holmes asked of me as he crouched at my side, resting a solicitous hand upon my arm.

I shook my head and attempted to catch my breath, realising that I was panting as if I had been running a great distance. "It was just a shock. Give me a moment and I shall be all right." I was indeed succumbing to shock, for I was beginning to feel horribly sick and discovered myself to be trembling.

"Are you quite certain that you are all right?"

"Yes. Yes, I am fine," I assured my friend as I attempted to stand. At once a terrible pain ran up my leg and spots danced across my vision. For a horrid moment I feared that I might vomit or even faint.

Holmes shook his head as he again attempted to make me comfortable on the cold, hard ground, his grey eyes dark and troubled as they swept over me in the dim light. "You cannot possibly walk on that leg tonight - you probably have a sprain at the very least."

It was quite obvious that the fellow was right. "I am so very sorry -"

The detective snorted as he removed his cloak from his shoulders. "Sorry indeed! You are not to blame. Now, wait here my good Watson and I shall get help."

With that I was wrapped in his cloak and muffler and left quite alone. I know not for how long I remained sitting on the ground, my new injury protesting in accompaniment with my old reminders of Afghanistan while the cold crept into my bones beneath the warm clothes I wore, but it felt like an eternity.

The sun eventually set and the wind picked up, causing the trees that surrounded me to whisper and moan raucously. As time wore on, other sounds started to join them - in particular were the screeches, which I must confess alarmed me in the darkness until I came to identify the sound as being only the call of a large, white owl that chose to perch quite close-by and study me for a long moment before continuing its quest for food once more.

My heart had not quite ceased its racing when a new sound reached my ears. This time, I immediately identified the sound to be racing hooves on the path behind me and I was thankful that I was not lying prone in the middle of the path, as I most certainly would have been had I injured myself while out walking alone.

I could not see the approaching horse but I could distinctly feel the pounding of its hooves causing the ground to quake beneath me as it made its approach and then it was standing over me, its hot breath snorting at my back. Suddenly, I felt very small and vulnerable.

"Who is it?" I asked, hoping that my voice did not betray my nerves, as I attempted to look over my shoulder. "Show yourself."

A sinister chuckle sounded and the horse snorted and pawed at the ground at my back. I twisted in an attempt to see over my shoulder, but I could discern nothing what so ever behind me. Yet the horse was still there, for I could feel its breath on my skin, hear the jingle of reins and the pawing of its hooves. I wondered why I was unable to see it.

As I listened, the hoof-beats backed away a short distance and the phantom horse whinnied, causing me to believe that its unseen rider had coaxed it to rear up on its hind legs a short distance behind me. Then the horse approached me at a gallop while a man's voice gave what I can only describe as a cry of fiendish delight. I felt a rush of air as the invisible horse and rider leapt over me and then there was silence - even the trees had ceased their noise. I remained where I was, not knowing even where to look for fear of being met with an unwelcome sight. I had never longed for human companionship so badly at any other time - I was desperately afraid.

After a minute or two the wind again picked up as if the lull had been a mere fancy of mine. I shivered in the chill air as my breath formed a mist in front of my face in short puffs, like the smoke of a chugging steam engine, while my teeth chattered. In an effort to keep warm I folded my arms and attempted to breathe on them.

"Watson!" a hand touched my shoulder and I started, staring up into the concerned gaze of Sherlock Holmes as he crouched at my side with a lantern.

"Holmes," I smiled at the fellow as relief flooded through me. "Thank goodness!"

He gave the hint of a smile as his eyes again swept over me. "How are you Watson? Can you stand with help? You there - Saunders - help me to assist the doctor back to the four-wheeler. Be sharp man! Can you not see that the fellow is going to take cold if we do not move ourselves? He is clearly dreadfully chilled!"

Standing was terribly difficult, even with assistance. My old wounds ached after being forced to sit on the ground in the cold night air and the fresh injury to my leg was paining me unmercifully. I found myself unable to put even the slightest weight on it, for doing so would cause me to feel faint and sick.

"Shock," I heard Holmes remark to the man assisting him, whom he had called Saunders.

We had almost reached the road when I froze. From behind us came the screams of a horse - a sound that I knew from the Afghan war.

"What is it?" my friend asked of me with concern. "Watson? What is it? Are you unwell?"

A single shot split the night, causing me to tremble, and then all was still. For a moment or two I remained still, panting with fear as much as with pain, and quite unable to move.

"Watson?" a squeeze to the hand that Holmes was gripping at last caught my attention and I gave a start. "Watson? Are you quite well old fellow?"

I drew a deep breath in an effort to calm myself and forced myself to meet his gaze. "Did you not hear that Holmes?"

He frowned and turned his head this way and that, clearly listening intently. "Hear what? There is not a sound - even the wind has died down."

I started to shiver vigorously at that moment - quite possibly as a reaction to his use of the word 'died', as I was quite beyond rational sense by now - and my companion instantly took action and had me carried the remaining distance to the waiting carriage.

It was not until my injury had been tended and I had been made comfortable that I considered the events of the night again and wondered what could have occurred. Even then, I waited a day or two, so that the impression was not so very fresh in my mind, before I decided to tell of what I had witnessed. Holmes, naturally, immediately put it all down to the shock of receiving a painful injury and then being deserted and blamed himself, but our host had a very different explanation.

"Doctor Watson has described the sounds that would have been heard precisely five years ago this month, practically to the day," the fellow told us quietly. "You see, on the very stretch of path on which you were forced to leave him, my cousin lost his life.

"He was a reckless fellow, Mr. Holmes, and seemed to feel that life without risks or danger was not worth living. He also loved horses and would ride everywhere at a gallop - as fast as he could make the poor beasts go."

Love is most certainly not what I would call it. Holmes and I would only ever force an animal to move at such speed in a matter of great urgency and never for our own enjoyment.

"It was on a fateful October evening," the fellow continued, "that my cousin decided to visit us here and rode over alone with two of his servants making their own way by road. Well, we knew nothing of this visit until the servants arrived with his belongings in the carriage, by which time he should no doubt have been with us for at least half an hour. I set out with a party from the hall while my cousin's room was prepared and his servants tended after their journey.

"The sight that awaited us..." he faltered a moment and turned his gaze to the fire. "Even now, the memory of it sickens me. What exactly transpired I cannot tell, but the horse had fallen and my cousin had died as a result - probably instantly - of a broken neck. The horse was also injured and had to be shot - it was screaming dreadfully."

I nodded, for I knew the sound to be a chilling one, and turned to Holmes.

"There are no such things as ghosts," the fellow said firmly. But his face was pale even for him and his expression seemed a little troubled as he clenched his fists and gazed into the fire. He barely left my side for the remainder of our stay.


End file.
